Paradise By The Gas Powr'd Lights
by Grav
Summary: 'Cause they were barely seventeen and they were barely dressed, except they were nearly forty and they were wearing enough clothing to smother a regiment.  Helen/John in the past tense, Ashley/Henry if you squint.


**AN**: I can't actually blame this one on Penknife, since I thought of it on my own. That said it _was_a dare…

If you have not heard Meatloaf's "Paradise By The Dashboard Lights", I recommend it on the basis that it is one of the greatest, by which I mean one of the most ridiculous, songs ever written.

Originally this fic was quite silly. Then it became less silly. And possibly even moving? You decide.

**Spoilers**: Nothing, really. Takes place pre-series when Ashley is about 14.

**Rating**: PG

**Disclaimer**: Not mine, and neither is the song.

**Characters/Pairing**: Helen Magnus/John Druitt (past), Ashley Magnus/Henry Foss (um, sort of)

**Summary**: 'Cause they were barely seventeen and they were barely dressed (except they were nearly forty and they were wearing enough clothing to smother a regiment).

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**Paradise By The Gas Powr'd Lights**

The first time Helen caught Ashley and Henry kissing in his alcove, she'd been so surprised that for one of the few times in her life, words had completely failed her. It made sense, her mind somehow thought rationally, as both of them were around the age to start experimenting with that sort of thing, and they had always been fond of one another. The part of her mind that wasn't trying to rationalize the situation wanted very badly to laugh at them, but she rather doubted that would help.

Instead, she had frozen at the entrance and coughed a bit more loudly than she really needed to. Immediately, she was confronted with two terrified faces, each turning brighter red by the moment. When she couldn't think of anything to say, she had settled for backing out of the room. She heard them whispering frantically as she left, but couldn't make out any of the words. The part of her that wanted to laugh was fighting hard to bubble out of her chest, so she fairly fled to the elevator and retreated to her own office where her laughter wouldn't echo so alarmingly.

Ashley arrived before she'd really got it out of her system, and Helen waved her daughter to the other sofa while she struggled to gain control of her composure. She swallowed the last of her mirth, and faced her daughter with as calm a countenance as could be expected under the circumstances.

"Don't be mad at Henry, I started it," Ashley blurted.

"Sweetheart, I never suspected otherwise," Helen said. "You are my daughter, after all."

"Are you mad at me?" Ashley asked hesitantly.

"No," Helen smiled. "I was just surprised."

"I should go tell Henry," Ashley moved to jump up, and Helen marveled at the energy of youth.

"Give him a few more minutes," she said, grinning at Ashley. "Waiting is good for him."

"Just Henry, or all boys?" Ashley asked curiously.

Helen smiled. She crossed her legs and leaned back a bit in the sofa. Ashley came to sit beside her and rested her head against her mother's shoulder.

"All boys,' Helen answered. "Never be unreasonable of course, and never be mean. But there's no harm in waiting."

"Did you make my father wait?" Ashley asked quietly.

Helen took a deep breath. "Yes and no," she said. "It was a different time, and I fear that if I'd waited for him to make the first move, I'd still be waiting. But once he understood the situation, I made him wait."

"You were a tease!" Ashley declared almost proudly.

"I suppose I was," Helen admitted. "There are so many ways to contrive baring your ankle at a man once you start to think about it."

"You did more than that." Ashley didn't know all the details of her conception, but she knew enough to understand that it hadn't exactly been within the realm of propriety.

"That came later," Helen said. She felt a quiver where corset laces no longer brushed against her skin, and remembered how clumsily she'd been divested of it the first time John had tried his hand at undressing her.

"Did you worry you'd be caught?"

"Would it upset you to learn that that was part of the fun?" Helen asked archly. She never pretended to be a conventional mother, but she liked to think she hadn't scarred her daughter too badly.

"No," Ashley said. "You always like danger."

Helen figured that Henry must be nearly out of his mind by now, but at the same time was reluctant to end the conversation, even though the more they talked, the more thoughts of John became inescapable.

"Were you afraid when you found out you were pregnant?" Ashley asked. "I guess that's a very definite way of getting caught."

And there it was. Helen had walked this line before, of how much to tell her daughter about the man who had sired her.

"I didn't really have a lot of time," Helen said, and that much was the truth. "Your father died, my father was always traveling, and James doesn't judge. He helped me develop a way to preserve you until," she paused, "until I recovered."

"You really loved him," Ashley said.

"I do," Helen said, so surprised that she hadn't choked on the words that it took her a moment to realize that she had said the wrong ones. "I did, I mean. I did love him."

"I should go tell Henry before he gives himself an ulcer," Ashley said. "Or destroys the gun he's trying to build for me. Are you okay?"

"Go." Helen's smile was a touch watery, but she nodded and sent Ashley to put Henry out of his misery.

When she was alone again, Helen braced herself for the waves of sadness, regret and anger that typically wore away at her whenever she thought of John. Instead came fire-warmed memories of stolen moments, clever fingers and far too many buttons, of his lips on hers, of deliberately misquoted poetry, and of that last turn around Picadilly, when he had promised her the pleasant kind of eternity.

She wasn't afraid for Ashley, and trusted her daughter enough to make her own decisions. Ashley was reckless, true, but in another direction. And Henry was properly afraid of them both. Her daughter's mistakes would be her own, and Helen would be a terrible hypocrite if she didn't let her make them. Beside, what the Victorians had in an excess of clothing, the Sanctuary matched in the number of rooms with security cameras.

After all, there was no harm in encouraging creativity.

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**fin**

Helen Magnus, Best Mother Ever: y/y?

Gravity_Not_Included, February 2, 2011**  
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